Something of a Soothsayer
by GreyLadyBast
Summary: Can a self-insert be believable, well-written, respectful of canon, self-aware, entertaining and NOT a parody? I don't know, but this is my attempt to find out.


Disclaimer----I didn't do it, nobody saw me do it, you can't prove a thing. And it's all Tolkien's fault, anyway. Or Peter Jackson's. Not mine, anyway.  
  
Author's Note and Warning-----Several months ago, I was bitten again by the Extraordinarily Evil Self-Insert Nuzgul. This time the stupid thing wanted a serious, believable, canon-respecting, self-aware, non-parody story (as opposed to "Taken Far Too Literally", which is intentionally over-the-top) Since then, I've been treating the symptoms with judicious applications of canon, both book and movie. Sadly, the affliction has grown worse, to the point of ruining my creativity for any of my other works. I fear the only cure for this malady is to give in, write the thing, and inflict it on you poor readers. Thus, this is a self-insert of the self-insertiest kind------ "21st century woman falls into Middle Earth." The personality of the OC is loosely based on myself, though the background situation stems from my worst nightmares. It is also a 10th member fic, for which Lord Elrond of OFUM will have my head once he finds out, but oh well. I fully intend to do my level best to treat the canon with the reverence it deserves. A LOT of research is going into this thing, far more than a self-insert actually warrants. It is blended-verse, which for the uninitiated means aspects of both the books and the movies will be used. Keeping that in mind, please don't be surprised if I make you wait until the movie of ROTK comes out before getting to that bit. Then again, given how slowly I write, it'll probably take me that long just to get there.  
  
Anyway, back to the warning. THIS IS SELF-INSERT!! I've done my best to make the OC three-dimensional (which basically means putting myself in, flaws and all). However, if you are one of those people who believe all self-insert fics are automatically Mary Sues, go no farther. I am fully aware that this qualifies as an MS by most standards. In fact, one of my aims is to touch on pretty much every Mary Sue cliché, thus proving that it can be done well in the hands of someone who loves and respects the source material. Thus, I would rather not receive flames solely on the MS factor. Unless, of course, they are creatively obscene. Then, by all means, flame away. I collect swears and am always looking for new and interesting ways to curse.  
  
Now that I've properly warned you, and wasted a lot of space on an extended author's note, let's move on to the story itself. With special thanks to my lovely beta-reader, Drew Marigold, allow me to present for your consideration, "Something of a Soothsayer." Feel free to slap me for pretentiousness now. I know I deserve it.  
  
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Prologue: Be Careful What You Wish For  
  
Morannon Jones sped recklessly down the dark, rain-slick highway. She paid no attention to the conditions of the road, ignoring the glare of her headlights as they reflected against the rain and ruined visibility. She was headed back to hell, and didn't much care if she got there alive. If she skidded her little Neon off the road and into a phone pole, that would suit her just fine. Better, in fact, for then she would regain what she'd lost. Who she'd lost.  
  
She wrenched her thoughts off that track. As tempting as it was to take the easy way out, she knew in her heart she couldn't. It was time to be brave for a change, to go back and face the music. But that didn't prevent her from hoping Fate would do what she could not. So she drove like a maniac, thankful there was no one else on the road to endanger.  
  
Morannon lit up another doob. In the wreckage of her life, she'd started up all of her bad habits again, one by one. All the time and effort she'd put into cleaning up her act so she could be a good example were wasted. Now she had no one to set an example for, and the haze of marijuana made the pain ignorable. Not bearable, nothing made it bearable, but better than the alternative.  
  
Pink Floyd's "Run Like Hell" came on the radio, so she cranked up the volume. It was easier to avoid thinking with the music loud. Morannon considered this song appropriate, given her situation. Besides, Pink Floyd was always good music to get stoned to.  
  
Floyd gave way to the Chili Peppers version of "Higher Ground." Morannon sped up to match the tempo, heedless of the weather. Maybe she'd get pulled over for speeding. Then she could finally move on to the next stage of this nightmare. Not that she was eager for what came next, it was more that she was sick and tired of things as they were. The long drive toward doom was wearying. Anything that shortened the trip would be welcomed.  
  
Fate, however, had no intention of cooperating with Morannon's wishes. True to the saying, the cops were not around now that she wanted them. No blue lights showed themselves in her rearview mirror. No lights other than her own shone through the rain.  
  
"Higher Ground" ended. After a short station-identification, the Talking Heads came on, playing "Once in a Lifetime." Morannon roached out the joint, and lit up a clove cigarette. She cracked open a Coke. When she found the next rest stop, she planned to pull in for a nap, maybe chug a couple of the beers she had in her cooler. She might as well indulge herself while she still had the freedom to do so. It would be gone soon enough. Meanwhile, David Byrne sang, "You may ask yourself: where does this highway go to? You may ask yourself: am I right? Am I wrong? You may say to yourself: my God, what have I done?"  
  
"You don't know the half of it, brother," Morannon said to the radio. She took a swig of her Coke, a drag off her clove, and tried hard not to think. She almost succeeded.  
  
"I really wish this was over," she continued, "I wish I was someplace else, anyplace else. Middle Earth, maybe. Just anywhere that's not here, where I could make a fresh start and pretend none of this ever happened. If I was constrained by Disney's rules and couldn't wish someone in love with me, or killed, or more importantly brought back from the dead, that's what I'd wish for. I wish I was someplace magical and completely different from here, where I could start over."  
  
Lightening forked across the sky just as she finished speaking. Morannon gave it no thought, being too high and numb with grief and guilt to pay attention or care.  
  
"Once in a Lifetime" wrapped up and was replaced by ads while Morannon talked to the air. She finished up her cigarette, stubbed it out and waited for the next tune. She wanted something loud and angry, like old Guns N Roses, or maybe Black Sabbath. She got some post-nineties Metallica suck song. Morannon had been a big Metallica fan before they had sold out. Now she couldn't stand them. She called them Cheesetallica, and refused to listen to anything newer than the stuff off "And Justice For All." Time to put in a CD.  
  
She only took her eyes off the road for the mere seconds needed to make sure she had the disc she wanted, but that was enough. She didn't see the rift as it formed in front of her. She didn't notice it while it was still small enough to avoid. The thing grew so quickly, by the time she looked up, it was the size of her car and still spreading.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" Morannon shrieked. She hit the brake and swerved, too late. The rift swallowed her Neon like a shark gulping down a seal pup. Then it winked out as quickly as it appeared. Nothing remained but abruptly disappearing skid marks.  
  
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Morannon let up the brake and tried desperately to steer into the skid. Her driving surface suddenly changed from wet road to dry turf. The car careened wildly through bushes, narrowly missing rocks. The ruin of an ancient wall loomed up ahead. Morannon slammed on the brake again and yanked the wheel hard to the left to avoid colliding head-on with the wall. But her reactions were dulled by weed, so she couldn't regain control quickly enough. She didn't even have time to swear before the Neon crashed.  
  
The airbag deployed and deflated, saving her from death but not from injury. She slumped over the steering wheel, out cold, as blood flowed down her face. The horn blared away in the night. 


End file.
